


one last moment (of you)

by hellstrider



Series: Into You [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anyways, Famous!Jaskier, Hurt/Comfort, Into You Verse, M/M, Modern verse, Part Siren!Jaskier, Still a Witcher!Geralt, jaskier is ariana grande, soft, the apology 2.0, welcome to the modern au u never asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22180822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: "Just wanted,”and Jaskier’s moving towards Yennefer as Geralt sounds as if he’s about to let out his dying breath;“one more moment of you,”and,
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Into You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596667
Comments: 57
Kudos: 1793





	one last moment (of you)

**Author's Note:**

> written to one last moment of you by ursine vulpine,
> 
> welcome to the into you verse,  
> where jaskier is basically ariana grande,  
> and geralt is the witcher he's obsessed with & possessed by,
> 
> tumblr: thebardjaskier

The phone starts to ring at precisely three-forty-three in the morning.

And,

Jaskier’s gut _clenches_ to see the name flashing across the screen;

His gut clenches,

As,

His heart _writhes,_

And a hot flash of heartbroken _panic_ makes his skin feel a little too _tight,_

As,

“Geralt,”

_But,_

All he gets in response is a soft, _wet-sounding_ gust of breath,

And the entire _world_ grinds to a _horrible,_

Fiery,

_Frigid,_

Apocalyptic halt.

“Geralt?” and he’s up in half an instant, writhing heart suddenly frozen _solid_ as it lodges in his damn _throat,_ and a faint, _familiar_ grunt burrs against Jaskier’s ear, 

Followed by a violent, “ _fuck_ ,” and,

“Geralt,” Jaskier starts, already fumbling with his discarded jeans; “ _missed your voice,_ ” Geralt says, and if the world hadn’t stopped _before_ , it sure as Hell does _now,_ as Geralt murmurs, “ _missed your voice,”_

And,

“Where are you? Geralt, what’s -”

 _“Surrounded by fucking flowers,_ ” Geralt rasps, _“fitting, don’t you think?”_

And Jaskier’s yanking on a sweatshirt he’s pretty sure is _actually_ one of Geralt’s he hasn’t managed to toss yet as panic chews up through his chest and Geralt growls, breathes wet and heavy, 

“Where are you?” Jaskier demands again, voice strangled with _desperation_ , but -

 _“You’re playing_ ,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier’s heart is frozen solid but kicking up into a damn frenzy all at the same time, and, “ _on the - the radio,”_

And Jaskier bites his bottom lip so hard it _splits,_

As he grabs the landline and starts to dial Yennefer’s number,

And _Geralt keeps_ \- keeps _fucking talking,_ which is a sign something’s _really fucking wrong,_

Says shit like,

 _“Your_ voice _, Jaskier, Gods,”_ and,

 _“I can’t - can’t_ feel _it,_ ” and,

 _“Wanted to - to_ feel _it, one last time,”_

And,

 _“What the fuck do you want?_ ” Yennefer demands, voice like sandpaper down the landline, and Jaskier’s eyes burn as he grips the edge of his kitchen counter so hard his knuckles bleach out,

“It’s Geralt, he’s -”

 _“Who you talking to?”_ the Witcher demands, sounding affronted, 

“Geralt, _just,_ ” and Jaskier lets his mobile clatter to the counter in favor of pressing the landline tighter to his ear, “it’s _Geralt,_ Yen, please - something’s happened, _he’s -”  
_

And Jaskier’s voice _cracks,_

As the line goes _dead,_

And then there’s a _surge_ of ozone, 

A feeling like all the air’s being _sucked_ out of the room,

And Yennefer emerges from a portal in the middle of his _fucking kitchen_ , hair _immaculate_ despite the late hour, black nightdress looking like an evening gown as it swirls around her, magnificent and shimmering,

“Keep him _talking_ ,” Yennefer snaps, shoving the mobile towards Jaskier, “I need five minutes,” and,

Jaskier scrabbles for the mobile, frigid heart in his _goddamn mouth_ , and Geralt’s breathing wet and heavy on the other end as Yennefer starts burning shit into Jaskier’s floors,

And she could burn down this _entire fucking stupid complex_ if she needed to, if that’s what it _took_ to reach Geralt,

Because the world’s come to a full, fiery, _frigid_ , apocalyptic halt _anyway,_

As Jaskier clings to the mobile and manages a shaky, 

“Geralt?”

 _“Mm,”_ a pause; _“Jaskier,”_

And his relief is _double-edged,_ brutal and soft all at once, a thing that cuts as much as it heals, when Geralt breathes his name like a hymn, _and,_

It’s been _five months_ since he heard that voice shape his name,

Five months of _silence,_

Of heartache so _fierce_ Jaskier was certain it really would put him in the fucking _ground_ , some days,

And,

_“Jaskier,”_

“We’re coming, Geralt, I _promise_ you, I just need you to -”

 _“Wanted…_ ” 

And Jaskier lets his aching eyes flutter shut as Geralt curses, voice all bloodied, all _brutal_ , broken glass in his throat; “ _I’m sorry,_ ” 

And it’s as if someone’s gone and shoved their fist _right_ through Jaskier’s chest, 

As if a banshee has _devoured_ half his _soul,_

As if he’s lost the _one thing_ he couldn’t stand to _lose_ ,

When Geralt murmurs the _faintest,_ wretched little, _“I’m sorry,_ ” and,

“Oh, _darling_ ,” Jaskier croaks, and Yennefer’s speaking in Elder as the sea starts to climb up into Jaskier’s throat; “Geralt, _listen to me_ -”

 _“Mm_ ,” and _Geralt sounds_ \- sounds like he’s _smiling_ , a bit, as he says, “ _can - can feel you, now, feel you like…”_

And saltwater burns through Jaskier’s veins,

Drips from his eyelashes,

As the sea climbs over his ribs,

Crowds into his _heart-packed_ throat, 

And,

“Found him,” Yennefer declares, as,

 _“Just wanted,_ ” and Jaskier’s moving towards Yennefer as Geralt sounds as if he’s about to let out his dying breath; “ _one more moment of you,_ ” and,

The portal flares to life,

And Jaskier clings to Yennefer as time and space bend around them,

As the mobile goes dead, fried by the surge of magic,

_And,_

They’re clattering through the other end of the gateway in a _heartbeat_ that feels like it lasts a _thousand fucking years,_

And Jaskier _staggers,_ a bit, when they emerge from the portal, the pair of them spilling out into a rain-slick street that reflects the tall lamplight like little captured moons on the asphalt,

And there’s a little house with a walkway lined in gardenia not five feet away, a little house Yennefer’s heading for it almost the _instant_ her bare feet meet the moonsoaked ground,

But Jaskier moves _faster_ , driven by the fear that nips at his heels like a bloodstarved hellhound,

“Jaskier, _wait -”_

But,

He _barely_ hears the sorceress, barely hears Yennefer’s sharp, _biting_ command to _wait_ as he slams through the front door of the little house with the walkway lined in gardenia, 

And,

The house is full of floral patterns, reeks of fake rose and iron,

And the wooden floor is covered in broken glass and blood, in roses and gardenias, in hydrangeas and sprigs of sage, 

And,

There are _corpses_ , corpses amongst the sea of bloodied flowers, 

Six -

 _Six_ corpses,

Corpses of - of _higher vampires,_

Their features twisted in the half-shift, their elongated talons _coated_ in bright red, bright red blood that paints horrible rainbows across the wooden floorboards, and Jaskier’s overwhelmed by the sheer amount of it, by the stench of it, heavy and cloying beneath his furling nose,

But then there’s a faint groan, and the frozen world _narrows_ , until all Jaskier can see is the figure slumped against a fallen armchair, blood turning the mauve velvet black,

And he’s falling to his knees beside Geralt without even realizing he’s made it across the bloodied ground, stepping over glass and cadavers with twisted faces and huge, glittering fangs bared between their dead, sneering lips, _and,_

_“Geralt,”_

And even as the sea comes through in his voice, as it washes over his tongue, _Geralt doesn’t -_ doesn’t fucking _move_ , and Jaskier’s tipping his head back with shaking hands, thumbs smearing over Geralt’s damp cheeks,

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Jaskier chokes out, feeling like he’s about to fall through the damn _earth_ , “oh, _Jesus_ , Geralt,” and,

The side of the Witcher’s throat is a mangled up _mess_ , deep bite marks ripping through his skin, and a ragged, _ashen_ sob punches from Jaskier’s chest as he splays a hand over Geralt’s, 

As he tries to feel for that too-slow heartbeat,

One he’s long since memorized,

One he’s been _aching_ to hear,

To _feel,_

One last time,

_And,_

“ - need to move, now,”

“ - don’t think he can hear -”

“Jaskier,

_“Jaskier!”_

And then there’s Yennefer, and her strong hands are closing around his wrists and Jaskier _thinks he must_ \- must say _something,_ because one of the other healers _flinches_ while another goes a little _glassy-eyed,_

And where the other healers came from, he _doesn’t fucking know,_

But suddenly the house is _full_ of them, and Yennefer’s luckily unaffected by Jaskier’s sea-strung voice as she drags him up and away from Geralt, who’s throat is a mangled _mess_ , who -

_Called,_

Called _him,_

Just to hear his _voice,_

To _feel_ him,

One last time,

_And,_

He _couldn’t find_ Geralt’s heartbeat, not beneath the hardened leather of his jacket, 

And Yennefer’s dragging him back as his throat fills with a silencing kind of _cotton_ , because the sea just _keeps crashing_ over his damn tongue, and _Jaskier can’t_ \- he can’t _stop it,_ can’t swallow it back, so Yennefer silences him, _and,_

Then she’s dragging his head down to her shoulder, as they stand out on the walkway lined in gardenia, 

As she keeps saying, “I _know,_ I know, _breathe_ , you need to breathe,” but,

He doesn’t think he’s got any lung left to fill,

As the silencing spell curls around Jaskier’s throat,

And he’s glad for it,

They _all_ should be,

Because there’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to _scream,_

And Yennefer knows it,

Because then silencing spell _doubles down_ into itself and Jaskier chokes on a _tight,_ capsizing breath,

Fists his hands against Yennefer’s arms,

And the sorceress is vibrating with captive energy as the healers drag Geralt out of the house, the house filled with floral patterns, with six corpses, the corpses of higher vampires, with their sneering mouths baring the fangs that tore into Geralt’s throat,

And how they end up at the hospital, Jaskier can’t say,

But one minute he’s on a rain-slick walkway leading up to a house full of dead vampires and the next he’s in a sterile corridor with too-bright fluorescent lights overhead, 

And Geralt’s somewhere in the supernaturals ICU, being poured over by specialists and healers and surgeons,

As Jaskier watches a tank full of exotic fish across the waiting room, just, blurs of color across his hazy vision,

And he’s got blood on his hands still, 

Doesn’t realize that, though, until Kiera’s taking them between her own and pulling him to his feet,

And he also doesn’t realize Kiera and Triss are there until Kiera’s pulling him to his feet, out of the rickety little chair in the SICU, and Triss grips his elbow before bee-lining towards Yennefer, sat slumped in a chair with her hand over her brow, and,

He doesn’t realize the silencing spell’s worn off until he’s washing his hands in an empty bathroom, Kiera propped against the sink beside him,

And he doesn’t realize he can speak again until the sorceress asks, “how long had it been?”

And,

“Five,” and Jaskier has to clear his throat, feeling like it’s been coated in plaster and dust, “five months,” and,

Kiera chews her lip as the automatic tap turns off, but Jaskier’s still got blood on his knuckles, so she hits it again and nudges him,

So he scrubs as Kiera lets out a low breath and leans back against the wall between two sinks, arms folded over her chest, 

“He’s an _idiot_ ,” Kiera says then, brows arching towards her bangs, and Jaskier can’t help the dry huff that falls from his lips, because that’s all Kiera had said, in the aftermath of the breakup that _hadn’t been_ a breakup, because they were _never -_

Never _together,_

Not _really,_

Because,

_It didn’t mean anything, Jaskier,_

_I don’t need anyone,_

_And the last thing I want is someone needing me,_

And he’s _exhausted_ , suddenly - _impossibly,_ utterly exhausted, as he scrubs Geralt’s blood from his hands; he’s had it beneath his short, blunt fingernails before, has patched up _one Geralt of Rivia_ more times than he can _count,_

Because the Witcher could take _any_ hit, it seemed,

Could take _any_ bullet except for -

“You still love him, don’t you?”

And the sorceress’ voice is _so_ gentle when she says it,

So _soft,_

And Jaskier bows his head as he grips the edges of the white porcelain sink,

As he breathes _deep,_

And says,

“Think that makes _me_ the idiot here, don’t you?”

Because,

There’s _no_ reality, in any universe, where one Jaskier Pankratz _wasn’t_ absolutely, completely, _stupidly_ gone on one _Geralt of fucking Rivia,_

And,

They _finally_ let them into the SICU to see Geralt, 

After _five fucking hours_ , during which Jaskier thinks he might, just, project into some blank plain of existence he’s never been before,

Until they’re letting them back into the SICU,

And Jaskier skids to a rough halt outside Geralt’s room,

Drinks in the scene beyond the glass as his fingertips - 

Go fucking _numb,_

Because,

There’s a thick line of stitches down the side of Geralt’s neck,

And his torso is all bound up in white gauze,

And he’s got three different IV’s dripping into his veins,

And he’s pale _, so_ fucking _pale_ , almost as pale as his white hair,

And a heart monitor sings out the cadence of his too-slow heartbeat as Jaskier picks his way slowly across the dimly lit room,

Smelling of sterile static and bleach,

Like _blood_ and iron,

Like fear and _grief,_

But Geralt’s _alive,_

And his chest _rises_ , falls, 

As Jaskier comes to a halt beside the bed,

And the cadence of Geralt’s heartbeat fills the room,

Thrums through Jaskier’s skull like a war-drum,

But even as it becomes his only focus, to the point where it starts to echo, a little,

Jaskier reaches out with a slightly trembling hand,

Puts his palm to Geralt’s chest, over a thin strip of gauze, 

And,

A too-slow beat patterns itself against Jaskier’s skin,

As he drinks in the sight of Geralt’s face, and he was _always -_

He always looked so _soft_ , when he slept,

Always looked like he’d let the world drop from his shoulders, if only for a little while,

And Jaskier reaches up to gentle a silver lock from his brow,

Knows there will be a _breaking,_

Can feel it gathering deep in his gut,

But his eyes are, for the moment, dry of saltwater as he slowly sinks into the chair beside where Geralt sleeps through the pain, the healing,

And Yennefer stands at the foot of the bed,

Pouring over the chart Jaskier’s fairly certain she’s _not_ supposed to be reading,

“Luckiest bastard in the _world,_ ” the sorceress murmurs, and Jaskier shuts his eyes,

Says, “I don’t want to _hear_ it,” even as Yennefer announces, “this amount of blood loss would’ve killed a lesser Witcher,” and,

“Yen, _please,”_

And he expects some pushback, if he’s being honest, but the sorceress merely purses her lips and puts the chart back where it came from, moves to plop down in the chair beside Jaskier, while Triss and Kiera hover in the corridor, both on their phones,

“This is the life, you know,” Yennefer says then, as Jaskier fights the urge to reach out and take Geralt’s big, calloused hand, “sitting in hospitals. Being terrified out of your skin at four in the morning.

“Oh, come now. Silence doesn’t _suit_ you, Jaskier.

“Neither does _quitting_ , actually,” 

And Jaskier shoots the sorceress a sharp glance; Yennefer arches a coy brow, full lips curving into a knowing, tired smirk as she says, “you gave up so easily on your Witcher, here,”

“He gave up first,”

“And _yet,”_

“Here I am. I know.”

 _“You_ were the one he called out for, in the end,” Yennefer says, “that means _everything,_ I know you know that,”

And Jaskier thinks about taking Geralt’s huge hand between his own until Yennefer’s taking his - until the sorceress laces their fingers together and squeezes, _tight,_

And it’s so violently out of character he nearly _chokes_ with it,

And,

_Ah,_

Here it comes,

_Now,_

As _Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg_ holds his _goddamn hand,_

At the bedside of the Witcher Jaskier just _couldn’t let go of,_

And,

_You’re playing,_

_On the radio,_

_Your_ voice _, Jaskier, Gods,_

And,

_I’m sorry,_

_“Fuck_ ,” Jaskier manages, and he presses the back of his free hand to his mouth as Yennefer holds the other, holds it _tight,_ and,

There’s a little couch in Geralt’s SICU room, 

One that Yennefer eventually herds Jaskier onto,

And he must fall asleep at some point, 

Because when next he blinks,

There’s sunlight pouring in through the curtains behind the stiff sofa,

Sunlight that pools over the linoleum floor, mint green and beige, 

Sunlight that warms Jaskier’s cheek, his neck, his ear, 

Sunlight that makes a pair of golden eyes glow as they, _just,_

Watch him,

And where Yennefer is, Jaskier doesn’t know,

But he doesn’t have time to question it, doesn’t have time for _anything_ but a pinched, tight, “ _Jesus Christ,_ ” as his heart makes a serious effort at punching out of his stupid chest,

And he’s stumbling over his own feet in his haste to reach the hospital bed, and Geralt grumbles wearily, grunts, “don’t break your damn nose,” and,

 _“You,_ ” Jaskier starts, and saltwater bites at his eyes as Geralt’s stupidly soft gaze sweeps over his face like it’s been _starved_ of him, “are an _idiot_ , Geralt of Rivia, and _we_ \- we are going to have, have _so many_ words,”

“Are we?”

 _“Are we -?_ ” and Jaskier chokes on air, a little, as Geralt’s lips twitch, _and,_ “we are going to have a _fight,_ Geralt, a _proper_ one,” 

“Scheduling those, now?” Geralt asks idly, as his beaten up fingers curl in the fabric of the huge hoodie Jaskier’s wearing, the hoodie that’s absolutely the Witcher’s, one of the many Jaskier couldn’t cope with getting rid of, no matter how much he pretended to hate one Geralt of Rivia, 

“We _are,_ ” Jaskier says hotly, “so clear next week, and maybe even the week after that, Witcher,”

“You have an interview next Tuesday,”

“How do you - _have you been_ -”

“Keeping tabs,”

 _“Stalking me?_ ”

“That’s rich, coming from _you,”_

And Jaskier plants his hands on either side of the pillow as Geralt reels him in with singular focus, hand fisted up _in the_ , the damn _hoodie_ , and,

“You’re such an _idiot_ ,” Jaskier says, right against Geralt’s split lips, and he’s feeling just this side of hysterical, _“six higher vampires,_ all _alone -”_

“Mm,”

“Telling me it didn’t _mean anything_ -”

“Never was a good liar,”

“You’re a -”

“An idiot, yes, that’s been well-established,”

And Jaskier is _helpless_ to it, when Geralt cups his chin, when Geralt looks at him like he’s some kind of _newfound fucking miracle_ , and,

“All I could think of was _you,_ ” the Witcher murmurs, “you’ve been with me every fucking _moment_ , these past five months,”

“Then why the _fuck_ -”

“You _deserve_ -”

 _“Ohoho_ , no, _nope_ , none of that - I’m going to put you back in a coma,”

“I wasn’t in a coma,”

“Not _yet,”_

“Jaskier,”

_“Geralt,”_

And then there’s a soft burr, one that rolls through Geralt’s chest, one that reverberates through Jaskier’s goddamn _bones,_ and he’s _so fucking helpless_ to it, to _melting_ a little, and Geralt must be hurting something _fierce,_ but he doesn’t even make a sound when Jaskier leans lightly against his chest,

_Just,_

Keeps thumbing over his chin as those golden eyes sweep over Jaskier’s face, 

And Jaskier’s Siren song doesn’t _work_ on Geralt, not like that, even though he can _feel_ it,

But one might _think_ it did,

With the way Geralt’s _watching him_ like he’s some newfound miracle, _and,_

“We’re going to have _such_ a fight,” Jaskier murmurs, voice going thick with seawater, and Geralt tips his chin up, brushes their lips together in a whisper of a kiss, “and you’ll _feel_ it, Witcher,”

“Good,” Geralt says, just this side of absent, because he’s still, _just_ , staring at Jaskier, staring at him in the way that has Jaskier _itching_ to write out just how it makes his soul _heave_ in the clutch of his bones, and if Geralt weren’t a Witcher, Jaskier might think him immune to his song _only_ because Geralt would do anything for him _already,_

Including depriving them both of each other in some strange bid to keep Jaskier _safe,_

Safe from _monsters,_

From the _life,_

From being _terrified_ out of his skin at _four in the fucking morning,_

From sitting beside his bloodied Witcher in the SICU,

_But,_

While Geralt would do _anything_ for Jaskier _already,_

“Even if I _wasn’t_ yours,” Jaskier says quietly, but he _is_ , belongs to the Witcher with the snow-white hair, with the sun-gold eyes, with the brimstone heart; “I’d _always_ answer your call. _Always,”_

And it’s a _promise,_

A declaration, 

A _challenge,_

One that has the Witcher’s white teeth glinting, a bit,

And Geralt tastes like _hospital_ and _blood_ when he presses a soft, lingering kiss to Jaskier’s chapped lips,

Tastes like ozone and stale breath,

But it’s the best thing he’s ever caught on his _stupid tongue,_

Better even than the sea,

Than song,

Than _anything,_

**Author's Note:**

> songs:  
> one last moment of you - ursine vulpine  
> the encounter - abbott, 2wei


End file.
